


Symbiosis

by nutmeag83



Series: Sherlock/Stargate Fusion series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, But still nosy, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, It's not any of the tagged characters, M/M, Mind Palace, Mycroft is a good big brother, Science Fiction, Sharing a Body, Somewhat minor character death, Symbiotes - Freeform, Symbiotic Relationship, Thoughts on Autonomy, Tok'ra (Stargate)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 22:12:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12263088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: John is a soldier in the Stargate Program until he’s injured. His only option for not being invalided out is to blend with a Tok’ra symbiote. But can he (a) give up his autonomy and (b) get along with the ridiculous being they want him to blend with?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to my usual readers who aren’t _Stargate_ /sci-fi fans. I really just needed a _Sherlock/Stargate_ fusion fic. Like, really.
> 
> While some members of the _Stargate_ universe may be mentioned in passing, it is mostly the mythos I’m drawing from. You needn’t have prior knowledge of _Stargate_ to read this fic, though I do highly suggest watching it. It’s pretty fucking awesome. ;) 
> 
> If you _are_ a _Stargate_ fan, this story takes place sometime around S6 or S7 (~2002). But that really doesn’t have much leaning on the events of this story. 
> 
> The glossary for this story is located in Part 2 of this series.
> 
> The entirety of my military knowledge is from Stargate and BSG. Sorry if I get it all completely wrong.

Captain John Watson ducked just in time to miss a staff weapon blast, then continued his weaving run across the field toward his team. This was _supposed_ to be a recon mission, but as often happened when any team from SG‑1 through SG‑8 could tell you, recon turned into battle a good third of the time (and more like half of the time for the first four SG teams).

If John were smart, he’d have complained about false advertising when he first came aboard the Stargate Program three years before. He’d enjoyed his time with the RAMC, and his tour to the Middle East had been interesting, but when he’d been asked by the U.S. Air Force to join a secret space program that would allow him to literally see new worlds, he’d jumped at the chance. Aliens, advanced technology, and loads of planets—what wasn’t to love?

What they’d failed to mention was that his arse would regularly be under fire and that most of the galaxy hated the Earth humans that the wider universe called the Tau’ri. They also didn’t say anything about the mostly primitive planets they usually landed on, where he had, on more than one occasion, been forced to sleep on lice-ridden beds when unable to get back to Earth by nightfall.

But Captain John Watson had never claimed to be smart. So he didn’t complain about the poor conditions and not-so-regularly scheduled battles he ended up a part of. He loved every damned minute of it. He loved fighting. He loved helping people. He loved seeing new places and learning new things. He’d been aboard spaceships on several occasions. So if he had to be deloused, Calamined, or patched up from time to time, it was well worth it.

Still, he had been looking forward to a nice, quiet recon on a boring planet for once. They’d been in a battle only the week before after all. No matter. Now was not the time to be mentally complaining. He needed to focus on getting to (relative) safety, which at that moment was just over the ridge he was heading toward. The rest of his team, SG‑7, waited for him there, trying to cover him as best they could.

After endless minutes of weaving, he finally made it over the ridge and dropped down next to Sergeant Donovan with a sigh of relief.

“Cutting it close there, Doc,” the sergeant murmured, eyes on the Jaffa soldiers heading toward them. The enemy Goa’uld rarely fought themselves; instead, they’d created the partially human Jaffa to act as soldiers and protectors. But the Jaffa had greater strength and faster reflexes than a normal human, so they were difficult to fight, even one-on-one.

“Well, you know me,” John replied, causing Donovan to snort. Despite being on the team with two other military members, and with John being a doctor first and military man second, he was still the adrenaline junkie of the group.

Sally Donovan had mostly joined the program because she was good at being a soldier and had a fascination with aliens. Colonel Greg Lestrade, SG‑7’s commander, was a leader first and a fighter second. Their final member and only civilian, Dr. Andy Dimmock, was the resident nerd who had been brought into the program because of his several degrees in archaeology. Of course, the fact that they were all in SG‑7, a fairly high-ranking team as far as the program was concerned, meant they each enjoyed a bit of danger and kept their heads in tense situations, but John was still the maddest in the group.

Which meant that he’d got caught up fighting several Jaffa while the rest of his team brilliantly found cover. Now that they were all together again, they could head back to the stargate, the alien device that would send them almost instantaneously back to Earth using technology John couldn’t even begin to understand. Something about wormholes and event horizons and other things that Donovan and Andy regularly geeked out over.

The colonel took point while John covered their six. It was less than a klick from their current location to the stargate, but the Jaffa had gained while SG‑7 had prepped to move out, and there were likely a few more waiting at the gate. John knew there would be a firefight before they could make it through the gate. This was nothing new, and the team had been together for two years now, so they were quite good at it. There was the kick of adrenaline John always got when he knew a fight loomed, and he tried not to let himself look forward to it too much.

Sure enough, there were two Jaffa guarding the portal when they arrived, with eight more on their tails. Andy headed to the dialing device so he could input Earth’s chevron coordinates while the other three held off the enemy. John hit the two guards with his Zat gun (a rather handy Goa’uld device that could stun, kill, or destroy as needed), while Donovan and the colonel managed several of the Jaffa behind them with their military-issue P90 submachine guns.

“Almost got it, Andy?” John yelled as he turned to help his teammates.

The gate whooshed to life in response, the geyser-that-wasn’t-water-but-looked-like-it shrinking back from an unstable vortex to its usual placid pond-like event horizon.

Just as Andy yelled, “IDC sent!” a staff blast hit Andy in the calf, causing him to cry out.

“Andy!” John yelled, looking to make sure the other two would cover him while he went to check on his wounded comrade. With a nod from the colonel, John leapt up from his spot and rushed to Andy’s side.

The burn was fairly superficial, mostly grazing the man’s outer leg. As John was relaying the information to his patient, he heard Donovan yell at him just before he felt a burning blow to his shoulder, followed by two more in quick succession. Another hit his leg before he toppled over. Through the haze of pain, John heard his teammates yelling and both P90s and a Zat firing, along with some staff weapon return shots. After a lifetime that was probably only forty-five seconds, the firing ended, and Donovan and the colonel joined John and Andy by the dialing device.

John was barely conscious through the pain, but managed to help the colonel walk/carry him through the gate while Donovan handled Andy. The last thing he remembered was entering Stargate Command on Earth before everything went black.

\------

A week after the firefight, John received the fatal blow that he was to be discharged and invalided back to England. His left arm, while still somewhat usable, would never have the strength to hold a weapon or a scalpel ever again. His leg would heal, had already begun to do so, but for now he limped and needed a cane. The SGC and Area 51 possessed a few bits of alien technology that could heal better than Tau’ri technology or medicine, but no one currently had the genes that would allow them to use the technology. Plus, John was just a replaceable soldier. He didn’t rate high enough for special treatment.

Once he was healed enough to start physical therapy, he’d be sent back across the pond, doomed to a dull existence as an invalided army veteran. And while people would respect him for being injured in the line of duty, no one would ever know that he had been fighting alien soldiers on a planet halfway across the galaxy when he’d been injured. He would have no one to reminisce about life at the SGC or as part of an SG team. He didn’t even have family. Well, he had an alcoholic sister that he talked to three times a year (on each of their birthdays and at Christmas), but no one he was close to.

John was having a waking nightmare about living alone in some hellhole bedsit, with nothing to stop him from eating the barrel of a gun, when Mike Stamford walked into the infirmary. Though the doctor was something of a friend, John really didn’t have the stamina to deal with the cheery man right then. He just wanted to be left alone with his physical and mental pain. He needed to get used to it.

But the good doctor could not be dissuaded with any amount of glaring, so John sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against his pillow.

“John! How are you feeling this morning? Pain getting any better?”

John grunted. He might not be able to get rid of his mate, but he could refuse to speak to him.

Mike sighed. “John, I know things are a bit…shit right now, but they will get better. The pain will go away, you’ll be able to go back to England, and–”

“And what, Mike?” John asked, unable to hold in the anger. He opened his eyes and glared at the doctor. “I’m completely useless outside of the army and SGC. I can’t even get a job as a GP right now. I’ll go back to gray England and get a gray flat and have a gray life. How the _hell_ do you expect things to get better?”

Mike’s face was frozen in surprise for a few moments before that damnable pity everyone gave to John these days filled his eyes. He nodded slowly. “I… I know. I was just trying…”

John sighed and rubbed his face with his good hand. “I know, Mike. But that’s all I’ve been hearing since I was wounded, and I can’t take it anymore. I was made for military life. I can’t survive outside of it.” He stopped himself from mentioning his suicidal thoughts, knowing it would only get him another psych eval, medication, and a band of watchdogs once he returned to England. “If only there was a way I could continue working at the SGC. Can’t I work here in the infirmary, once I’m finished with therapy? I’ll never be a surgeon, but I can still help dress wounds or something.”

Mike laughed, a bit bitterly, which was unlike him. “Pretty sure the SGC doesn’t want to pay a doctor to do a nurse’s job. Plus, you know the nurses still do heavy lifting sometimes. You need both arms at full strength.” Mike looked sad. Mike was never sad. It made John hate himself.

“Gate tech?” John asked dryly, trying to lighten the mood. He was known for being technologically inept, and he would never make it as someone who ran diagnostics and kept the stargate and all its technology working, despite the joke that all gate techs did was input gate addresses and announce which chevron was locked as the gate dialed out.

Mike gave a small, but still sad, smile. “I’d love to see that. If only there was a way to download the knowledge straight into your br–” Mike stopped, face frozen in stunned thought.

“Mike?” John asked, a little concerned for his friend.

Mike smiled his happy smile. “How do you feel about being a Tok’ra host?”

“Are you joking?” John asked incredulously.

He knew who the Tok’ra were. They were the genetic siblings to the Goa’uld—Earth’s Enemy Number One. But where the Goa’uld were evil fuckers bent on ruling the galaxy, the Tok’ra were a rebellion group who hated everything the Goa’uld stood for, which included taking hosts by force.

The Tok’ra and Goa’uld were a parasitic species, which humans derogatorily referred to as snakes, who latched onto the spinal cords of a host (generally human, but any sentient being would work). The difference between the two groups was that where the Goa’uld took and subsumed the host, taking full control of the body, Tok’ra asked for volunteer hosts, and they shared a symbiotic relationship with the host, with both host and symbiote being allowed control of the body and a say in what happened to them.

A Goa’uld host could live for thousands of years by use of a sarcophagus, which kept the body in prime condition but destroyed the souls and minds of both the host and the Goa’uld. Tok’ra, on the other hand, lived out their lives normally. Each host lived for around two hundred years, and the Tok’ra symbiote lived a few thousand before dying of old age.

While Mike’s suggestion seemed a bit out there, it actually made sense when John thought about it. The main reason the Tok’ra allied with the Tau’ri was so that the Tau’ri could provide human hosts. A symbiote could heal most illnesses and injuries of a human body, plus it extended the life of the host by more than a hundred years. In addition, the Tok’ra fought the Goa’uld, often as spies if not as soldiers. So not only would John be healed, but he could go back to doing what he did best. He would also gain all of the genetic knowledge of the Tok’ra species, plus the individual knowledge of the symbiote.

That thought brought John’s burgeoning hope to a halt, though. Could he share his mind and body with another being for the rest of his life? He had heard of others becoming hosts, but most of them were at death’s door. Then again, had he not just been saying that a life as an invalid was no life at all? Had he not daydreamed more than once of sneaking into the armory and ending it? Maybe becoming a host was lifesaving for him as well. But still, could he give up autonomy for it, or would the end of a gun be the better way of releasing him from this hell?

“I don’t know, Mike…” John finally said, looking as his friend.

“I know it’s a big decision, but just give it some thought, okay? We got word two days ago that a host will be needed soon, probably within a month. I can give you another four days to think about it before I start looking elsewhere, okay?”

John nodded. “Right. Okay. I’ll let you know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to meet Sherlock and learn a bit more about the Tok'ra and the symbiote/host unit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for the gads of notes on this chapter. The SG ‘verse has a really deep mythos. These should be the last chapter notes you have to suffer through.
> 
> Since we won’t be getting Sherlock in the body of Benedict Cumberbatch (try not to cry too much, okay?), you can imagine that Sherlock was in a host that did look like BC in his youth. Because his host is now old, I’m envisioning BC’s dad, Timothy Carlton, in the role of Timot (I even gave the host his name, to an extent). Mycroft’s current host looks like Mark Gatiss, because why not. 
> 
> I’ll be using mostly English cursing/words, just like the Stargate show does. Just roll with it. All Tok’ra/Goa’uld words will be defined in the glossary. I’ll also be using Earth time units because I really don’t want to calculate that shit. Just imagine that they’re using some sort of Tok’ra standard instead. 
> 
> Tok’ra symbiotes are genetically agametic (as in, born with no sexual organs), but often identify as one of the human genders and prefer to take a human host of their identified gender. On the show, the symbiotes are usually referred to as he/she dependent on their preference, and agendered Tok’ra are called “they” or identified by their host’s gender. I don’t like this, so I’ll be using the English pronoun of xe/xem. When I use they/them instead of he/him or xe/xem, it’s because I’m talking about the host/symbiote as a unit ( _Sharak_ ; I totally made this word up; it’s not part of the SG mythos, but I needed a name for the symbiote-human unit). 
> 
> FYI, when the symbiote is controlling the body and speaks, their voice is deeper than the host’s natural voice.
> 
> Words set off with «» indicate the host and symbiote are communicating internally. 

Sherlock cursed their rapidly weakening body as they rounded another corner. He hated being slow. He hated being relegated to the Tok’ra homeworld and the crystal tunnels they lived in. He needed a teaming city above ground. He needed crime and rebellion and action. The life of the old and infirm did not suit him.

«You’re already old and infirm, tek'ma'te,» his host Timot thought at him with an internal smirk. «I’m the young’un of the two of us _._ »

Sherlock rolled their eyes and continued down the tunnel toward the council chambers. «My mind is still in perfect working order, I’ll have you know. It’s just this damnable body that’s failing.»

**«** Watch it, mikta. Remember who gave you this body,» Timot replied.

It was only half in jest, and Sherlock tried not to think about why they were a bit testy with each other lately. He and Timot had been together for two hundred and forty-five years. That was a ridiculously long time for a Tok’ra host to survive, but Sherlock came from a generation known for its ability to give their hosts an extra-long life even by Tok’ra standards. Mycroft, another member from the same generation, had stayed with xyr previous host for over two hundred and fifty years, and xyr current host didn’t look a day over forty-five, even though he was actually one hundred and forty-two.

Still, time marched inexorably forward, and Timot was perilously close to the end of his life, which Sherlock abhorred thinking about it. He and Timot were not as close as many Sharak were, but they still enjoyed each other’s company a great deal and had grown quite used to one another during their years together. His loss would affect Sherlock deeply, and Sherlock was not looking forward to the emotional upheaval that was losing one host and gaining another. He would be out of commission for weeks while he adjusted. Timot was lucky to not have to deal with that.

«You’ll be fine, old friend,» Timot said to him reassuringly. «I’ll be sure to leave as much of my attitude with you when I go as I can.»

«Please don’t,» Sherlock let slip before he could stop himself. «I… I don’t think I could handle that, if too much of you stayed. I mean no disrespect, but…»

«I know,» Timot reassured. «But you _will_ be fine. You’re strong, and you have plenty of attitude of your own. Let’s hope your new host can keep up with you.»

Sherlock snorted. _There_ was a problem he hadn’t let himself consider recently. In the past, when he’d had options for a host, he’d tended toward ones that didn’t mind that he preferred to be in charge. Not that he wanted someone boring, just someone who agreed with him a lot and didn’t mind letting Sherlock control their body much of the time. Hosts were much harder to come by these days, though, so Sherlock would likely be stuck with whatever he could get. His new host would likely come from the Tau’ri, which had Sherlock intrigued. They were a feistier branch of humans than most in the galaxy. That could bode ill for Sherlock receiving a host he got on with, but who knew. They could surprise him. At least they would likely be a soldier, given who the Tau’ri had sent as hosts in the past. He needed a strong and able body to do his job.

«And to have fun,» Timot interjected.

«And to have fun,» Sherlock agreed with a smile.

They entered the council chambers to find Mycroft and xyr host Marcon there alone, and Sherlock knew immediately why he had been called. Not that he hadn’t suspected it from the moment he had been summoned. They’d found him a host.

“When will they arrive?” Sherlock asked without preamble.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but only said, “Tomorrow. And it’s not definite. You know how the Tau’ri work. So distrustful. He wants to ‘get to know you’ first.”

So, the host was male. While Sherlock did identify as male, despite technically being an agametic being, he was not opposed to a female host. Had had a couple in the past. Mycroft, on the other hand, was agender and did not have a gender preference for xyr host. Tok’ra, like all sentient species, ran across the spectrum, some insisting on a specific gender of host, some being a bit more fluid like Sherlock, and a few being agender like Mycroft.

Still, Sherlock did feel most comfortable in a male host and was a little relieved to have one less thing to distract him in the new body.

“Soldier?” he queried, his bigger worry surfacing.

“Yes, wounded in action during a battle with some Jaffa.”

Sherlock nodded. “Very well. Call me when he arrives.” He turned to leave.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft called. Sherlock turned in time to see Mycroft suppress a grimace. Oh hells, xe was going to get sentimental.

They came from the same generation of Tok’ra birthed by their queen millennia ago, and Sherlock and Mycroft had a closer connection in that their first hosts had been brothers. Since then, the bond had been strengthened by the idea of counting each other as siblings. Sherlock mostly used the bond to act like a bratty younger brother to annoy Mycroft as often as possible, and Mycroft returned it by acting like the smug, superior, over-protective older sibling. They made it work.

But every once in a while, Mycroft decided to get…sentimental. And with Timot’s life coming to a close, xe’d been especially hovering and maudlin.

“I’m prepared, Mycroft. Do not worry. It’s been three hosts since–” Sherlock stopped himself.

«Since you acted like your host mattered at all?» Timot finished. It was partially facetious but partially a barb, as Sherlock had been growing more distant as Timot’s end grew near; Timot was not taking the separation well.

Timot did matter, and he knew it, but Sherlock _had_ to distance himself. It was the only way he survived the loss of a host. Timot understood that as well, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“I’ll be fine, Mycroft,” Sherlock finally said. “Call me when he arrives.” They exited the chamber before Mycroft had a chance to say anything further.

\------

The new host arrived with the usual gaggle of people that heralded a visit from the Tau’ri. Eight people in drab greens and browns filled the guest chambers soon after dawn. Sherlock didn’t even need a summons to know they had arrived, the very air was charged with their invasion.

Sherlock and Timot had interacted with the Tau’ri before, both here on the homeworld and offworld during several undercover operations. Sherlock was fascinated by their culture and had learned as much as he could glean from them during their time together. He had a good idea of how the Stargate Program’s structure was organized. This aspect of the Tau’ri culture was easy to figure out, because it was the same no matter where the Tau’ri originated from.

But the Stargate Program pulled people from all over the Tau’ri homeworld, and though they were a fairly global society now, they had a vast number of smaller cultures spread over the planet. The majority of those in the program hailed from one land called America, and most of those were part of the military contingent, but a smattering of other cultures and militaries existed in the program, and they all were fascinating and strange.

If there was a good thing about accepting a new host, it was that Sherlock would be privy to a whole set of new cultures. He was looking forward to learning everything about Earth and its people.

«There’s the Sherlock I know and love,» Timot commented as they hobbled down the tunnel toward the guest chambers.

Sherlock smirked. Though he had recently tried to pull back his thoughts so that Timot didn’t see them all, two and half centuries of being together had ingrained in Sherlock the habit of sharing his thoughts at all times. It was the way a Sharak worked best, and though Sherlock was glad for it most of the time, it was something he fought toward the end of his hosts’ lives.

«Sherlock, please don’t mourn me overly much. I’ve had a good life. You were a good Sharaki. I don’t regret deciding to become a host, and you shouldn’t regret having me as one.»

Sherlock heaved a breath and ignored his friend as they entered the chamber. He straightened as best he could.

Into battle.

He knew which man was his new host immediately. He discounted the three females in the group, but even without the gender distinction, there was only one injured person in the room.

The man stood tensely with a walking stick by his side, looking pale, exhausted, and miserable. He had blond hair, tanned skin under the pallor, and an unassuming face that was likely quite expressive when he wasn’t on the verge of suicide. Sherlock clocked all of that and more in the time it took them to cross to the people in the room.

Mycroft/Marcon and several other Tok’ra were entertaining the Tau’ri, offering them refreshments and comfortable furniture during their wait.

Sherlock ignored everyone else and went straight to the man.

“I play the mandeen when I’m thinking («You call that playing?»), I’m not particularly talkative («Like I’ve had a quiet moment since I met you»), and I tend to get into more trouble than I ought («You got that right»).”

The man jerked his head up in surprise, staring at Sherlock in confusion as he spoke. “What?”

“Sharaki should know the worst about each other, don’t you think?”

«Those aren’t your worst traits, tek'ma'te.»

John looked around, first at the other Tok’ra in the room, then at his fellow Tau’ri. “Did someone tell you about me?”

“You did, just now.”

The man looked at them blankly. Sherlock worried about his intelligence.

Sherlock rolled their eyes and explained. “I know my host is male, and you’re the only one in the room that is injured. It wasn’t a difficult deduction.”

«Give him a little slack,» Timot berated. «He looks like he’s had a rough time of it, and now he’s being thrust into a situation he didn’t ask for.»

«He’ll have to deal with a lot more if he becomes my host,» Sherlock replied.

«Don’t I know it,» Timot commented cheekily.

“Oh. Right,” the man replied. His eyes held the slightest bit of interest, which was more than they’d had when Sherlock had first entered the room. He put out his hand. “Captain John Watson, SG‑7.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly until Timot got annoyed and took over, taking the man’s hand in greeting. “We are Timot and Sherlock.”

The captain’s eyes widened as the flash in their eyes and change of voice signaled that the host had taken control of the body, but he recovered quickly and nodded. “Right. Which one am I speaking to now?”

Timot smiled. “You are speaking to both of us. As to which of us is doing the talking right now, that would be Timot, the host.”

Sherlock internally rolled his eyes. Timot went too easy on people. Why should they have to stoop to everyone else’s level? It was tedious.

«I do it so you don’t have to, and so that we don’t get kicked out of every place we enter as soon as we open our mouths, you mikta. If we’re to help people, we need to be on their good sides.»

Sherlock smiled. Timot always knew what to say. He was going to miss that.

«I see plenty of fight in this one. I don’t think you need to worry.»

Sherlock had his doubts. The man looked more than a bit untrusting. He did look like he had spine, however. Spine that he was employing to stand straight and strong, barely using the walking stick. He had an injured arm that was currently in a sling, but even though he was most definitely in pain, he didn’t curl into it like many would. That said a lot about both his pain tolerance and mental strength.

“So, uh…” John Watson looked around the room. “As much as I’d love to have a blind date with ten of our closest friends watching, do you think we might… I dunno, go for a walk or something?”

Sherlock and Timot ignored the strange phrasing. The meaning was clear. Timot nodded, gesturing for the door. They caught Mycroft/Marcon’s eye as they headed out of the room. They nodded, indicating that they’d send the rest of the group back to Earth. This might take a while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John talks with Sherlock/Timot, weighs his options, and has a few visitors.

This was…strange. John had never met a Tok’ra before. Had seen a few at a distance, heard plenty of stories, but he’d never met one. They were a stiff bunch. Well, there had been the chatty bald guy in the welcoming group, but the other two didn’t say much, and the tallest one had looked like he was sucking on a lemon-covered pickle dipped in mustard.

John had to remind himself yet again that the Tok’ra weren’t single people, but pairs: Sharak. He’d been given a folder full of information to prepare him for the meeting. The history of the Tok’ra, how his allegiances would change from Earth, England, and the SGC to the Tok’ra if he decided to blend. And then there was the blending itself. The symbiote would detach itself from its host, slither out of the host’s mouth, into John’s, and implant itself onto John’s spinal cord. It was more than a little alarming and plenty creepy.

And from then on, John wouldn’t be alone. His body wouldn’t be his own. And this symbiote, Sherlock, seemed forceful and more than a little rude. Would he completely take over, barely allowing John a say? Technically, they would have a completely symbiotic relationship, John gaining health and a long life, Sherlock gaining a body, and both having equal say in what that body did. But John had heard that generally the symbiotes tended to be in charge more often than not.

Perhaps it was a matter of matching personalities. While Sherlock was quite forceful, Timot didn’t seem to take things lying down. The two had switched dominance of the body four times in the last ten minutes. Timot showing John around and talking a bit about their culture, with Sherlock interjecting when he thought Timot was doing it wrong. It was actually rather amusing.

“Do you two always do that?” John asked, cracking a smile.

“Do what?” asked Timot, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Switch off like that? Argue? The others I’ve met seemed to stick with one, um, voice.” The change in voice and the flashing eyes made the switches even more disconcerting. A deeper voice indicated the symbiote was talking, and the body’s eyes flashed yellow briefly as the switch occurred. Most other Tok’ra closed their eyes and bowed their heads when personalities switched, likely as a courtesy to other humans, but Sherlock and Timot didn’t bother. John was quickly realizing that this was probably a Sherlock trait, not a Timot one.

It was interesting how he had managed to separate the two so quickly. Though they shared a body, they were two distinct people with different affectations and attitudes. John found it fascinating.

Timot smiled. “Generally, Sherlock is in charge, but I do tend to take over when we meet new people. Sherlock’s personality is…strong. He’s very intelligent, but short on patience. I find it helpful if I ease the way first.” Timot quirked an eyebrow. “I hope your social skills are good.”

John laughed, a bit bitterly. He had a few friends in the SGC, but he mostly kept to himself. He knew how to behave around people, though, so there was that.

The Tok’ra’s eyes flashed, and Sherlock was back in the driver seat.

“Thank goodness, no. John may have a good amount of social knowledge, but he has as little patience for social protocols as I do, isn’t that right, Dr. Watson?”

How the hell….?

“How did you know I was a doctor?”

“One of the Tau’ri called you ‘Doc’ when we first entered the room. This could have been a sobriquet, but you were quite interested in our meager infirmary when Timot pointed it out. There is the Tau’ri symbol for medicine on your uniform, which indicates your service as a medic. Really, how could I have _not_ deduced your occupation?”

John knew all of the Tok’ra were intelligent—how could they not be with genetic knowledge plus thousands of years of individual learning—but Sherlock seemed sharper than most.

“What else can you _deduce_ about me?” John asked with a slight smirk, interested in seeing what else Sherlock had noticed about him.

“Soldier and medic, obvious. Not from America, also obvious given your accent. You have no pets and lead a simple life that is mostly nonexistent outside of work. You have no close family and no romantic partners. Your people think you are suffering from mental trauma due to your injury, but the truth is that you have an addiction to danger and abhor inaction. You are suicidal because of your injury. I have my concerns about your stubborn nature, but otherwise we are a good fit.”

John bristled slightly at the mention of his PTSD and suicidal tendencies, but was otherwise amazed at Sherlock’s words. He had John’s personality and (lack of) personal life figured out in less than ten minutes of knowing each other. Especially amazing considering John had done little of the talking during their walk.

“How did you guess all of that?”

“I didn’t _guess_ , I _saw_. If you were close to anyone, you wouldn’t be here, especially considering you aren’t near death. You were morose when you were with your comrades but have cheered considerably during our walk, especially when Timot mentioned the dangerous nature of our job. You have no stray fur or hair on your clothing, suggesting you live alone, with no pets. You weren’t interacting with your team, which means you likely aren’t close with them, even though you go into battle together. You tense when Timot talks about the Sharak relationship, which shows you are stubborn about your autonomy.”

It all seemed perfectly obvious when Sherlock said it. “That was…amazing.”

Sherlock tilted their head. “You think so?”

“’Course it was. Extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Kree shac, shel nok.”

“And what does that mean?”

Sherlock paused a moment, obviously searching for a translation. “Bite me.”

John guffawed. “You _are_ a bit… critical, but that doesn’t make what you do any less amazing.”

Sherlock looked down as if shy. “Thank you.”

Before John could internalize Sherlock’s change in attitude, an older woman with red hair approached them.

“Ah, Sherlock and Timot, tek'ma'tek. How are you?”

The first genuine smile John had seen from Sherlock appeared as he looked at the woman. “Mar’ta, Serfeen. Tek'ma'tek. We are well. How is your hip?”

She waved in disgust. “Acting up again. Aging bodies. Well, you know,” she said, gesturing to Sherlock/Timot’s also aging body.

“Indeed. Mar’ta and Serfeen, this is Captain Dr. John Watson.”

John laughed. “John is fine. A pleasure to meet you, Mar’ta and Serfeen. Umm, sorry if I’m rude, but which one of you is speaking now? I like to differentiate.” Her voice had the deepness of a symbiote, but Sherlock hadn’t noted which name went with which part of the Sharak.

The pair smiled. “Oh, aren’t you a dear! Mar’ta is speaking now. You must be the new host. He’s a good-looking one, isn’t he?” she said with a wink at Sherlock.

John felt his face heat. While he’d handled all manner of flirting in his lifetime, he wasn’t used to being chatted up by thousand-year-old aliens. “ _Potential_ host,” he finally managed. “We’re still interviewing.”

She pish-poshed, as if thinking it was a done deal. “If there’s anything at all you need, or if Sherlock gets difficult, you just come see me. I’ve been looking after this boy since he was born.”

“Ah, right. Thank you.”

“Come along, John. Shal'nok.” Sherlock turned to continue their walk down the corridor.

“Shal'nok.” Mar’ta/Serfeen bowed and headed the other direction.

“Uh, yeah. Shal… shal’nok, Mar’ta and Serfeen.” John waved and hurried to catch up with Sherlock and Timot.

\------

God, was this overwhelming. John had spent several hours with Sherlock and Timot before begging off for some rest. The Sharak looked like they could use a rest themselves, though they had only shrugged when John mentioned his own fatigue. He was tucked away in the guest chamber, now cleared of SG‑7 and SG‑15.

John wondered how tetchy the colonel had got when the Tok’ra had asked them to leave. Though John was volunteering to do this, Lestrade would still feel protective of his departing team member. He was a good man, and John knew he’d miss his commander, not to mention the rest of his team. Not that he knew for sure that he would agree to be Sherlock’s host, but John was leaving SG‑7 regardless.

John put thoughts of his team aside to concentrate on the issue at hand. He liked Sherlock, he really did. The man (being?) was rather insufferable and rude and thought himself above others, but he was also charming and intelligent and just a little shy under his arrogance. As friends, John could see them getting along. They both liked adventure and excitement and shared a curious nature and a gallows humor not many others appreciated. But John worried about losing himself in the blending. It was one thing to be friends, and another to agree to share his body with said friend.

Then again, as he’d reminded himself several times, what did he really have to give up? He would be miserable in England. He didn’t have much to live for. Sherlock had recognized that only too easily.

But still… could he do it?

John’s thoughts were interrupted when one of the Tok’ra he’d met when he’d first arrived, the one with the sour expression, entered the room. The Tok’ra complex had no doors, so there was nowhere to knock, but John would’ve appreciated some warning. Instead he jumped slightly when the Tok’ra walked in unannounced.

“Captain Watson, might I have a word?”

John shrugged and stood. “I reckon.”

The man stepped further into the room with a nod.

“Was your talk with Sherlock satisfactory?”

“Yeah, it was fine. He’s an interesting guy. They both are.”

The man gave a thin smile. “That’s not what people normally say.”

John chuckled in remembrance. “So I’ve heard.”

“Will you agree to become a host, then?”

John frowned. He’d been told he had a few days to think on it. “Dunno yet. Still deciding.”

“Decide quickly. Timot is closer to death than he and Sherlock let on.”

John had noticed a pallor on the host’s face as their walk came to an end, but he wasn’t exactly a good judge of Tok’ra health.

“Can I have another day at least?”

“Are you afraid of the blending, Captain?”

“No.”

“Ah, the bravery of the soldier, of course. Something is holding you back, though. Trust issues then.” He glared at John. “I’m not sure you’re the best fit for Sherlock.”

John tensed. “Who _are_ you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested why?”

“I worry about Sherlock. I need to know we can trust his host without reservation. His work is very important to the Tok’ra, no matter how he sugarcoats it with talk of adventure and fun.” He grimaced, as if fun were anathema to his life (and should be for anyone else’s).

John took a deep breath to keep himself calm. Who was this tosser to show up and stick his big nose in their business? Whether John became a host was up to him and Sherlock, not anyone else. Plus! John was doing _them_ a favor by even considering the blending.

“Look,” John pointed a finger at the Tok’ra. “If I do this—and that’s a big _if_ with the way I’m being treated—you do not need to worry about trusting me. I’m a soldier and a healer. Helping people is my job. So if I become Sherlock’s host, I will work with him to the best of my ability to defeat those Goa’uld bastards, got it? You won’t need to worry that I’ll turn on you or suppress Sherlock or whatever it is that’s got your knickers in a twist, okay? I will do my job and do it well.”

The man’s eyebrows rose during John’s rant. “Hmmm, loyal, too. Interesting. Very well. But don’t delay. Time to choose a side, Captain.”

With that, the man turned on his heel and left the room.

John was still recovering from the encounter when another man arrived not five minutes later. Could he not get just an hour to himself? This lack of doors thing was _not on_.

It was the chatty Tok’ra from earlier. He at least stopped at the entrance and gave a pretense of knocking. “Mind if I interrupt?” He spoke in the voice of the host, not something John had heard much outside of Timot. It was a welcome change.

“Come in,” John replied reluctantly, not feeling he had a choice.

The man seemed to realize this, and he gave John an apologetic smile. “I know this must be rather overwhelming for you, and I won’t keep you for long. I just wanted to check in, see if you had any questions.” The man’s accent sounded American, very much like Donovan’s New York accent.

“You’re human,” John blurted out. “I mean, Tau’ri human.

The man grinned. “Jacob Carter, at your service, along with Selmak, but he’s not Tau’ri,” he added with a wink.

John’s eyes widened. Jacob Carter, the first Tau’ri to take a Tok’ra symbiote, the man who helped form the Tok’ra-Tau’ri alliance. This man was the reason John was even there in the first place.

“It’s an honor, sir. Major Carter sends her love, by the way,” John added, remembering the conversation he’d had with Jacob’s daughter—founding member of SG‑1 and smartest person in the Stargate Program. She had approached him the day before he’d left Earth, asking him to check in with her dad. John didn’t know her well, but she was a legend throughout the SGC.

Jacob’s grin widened. “Oh, you know Sam? How is she?”

“Doing well, sir. She apologized for being unable to join us. She went out on another mission just before we left Earth.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, she’s got her hands full with Anubis these days, doesn’t she?”

“Don’t we all?” John replied, chagrined. The System Lord was causing problems throughout the galaxy, his defeat not going nearly as easily as many of the others had. Still, it was just another day with the SGC when there was a Big Bad to fight.

Jacob gave John a look of resigned agreement. “We can talk shop later. I just wanted to see if you had any questions or concerns. Molly, another Tau’ri host here at this base, is another one you can usually talk to, but she’s on an offworld mission right now.”

John brightened. “Oh, I remember Molly. I’d heard she’d become a host. I didn’t know her too well, but she seemed nice.”

“She’s a sweetheart and very smart. Blending has done her a world of good. She was a shy mouse when she came to us, but has become quite the spitfire. She and Korra are excellent agents.”

It heartened John that not only was Molly doing well, but that the blending really was beneficial beyond health. If that was the case for everyone, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea…

“And you? Has it been good for you?” he asked.

Jacob tilted his head. “You mean beyond health benefits, don’t you?”

John knew the man had had cancer—had been on death’s door—when he’d blended. John nodded.

“Best decision I ever made,” was his unequivocal response. “I know more than I ever thought possible, I’ve seen more of the galaxy than I believed even existed, my relationship with Sam improved one hundred fold, and I’ve made the best friend I could have ever hoped for.” The man’s face shined with happiness.

Well, that was good, but what about…? “You didn’t worry about losing your independence?”

Jacob shrugged. “My situation was a bit more untenable than yours. I didn’t really have time to consider that too much. But I do get where you’re coming from. We Americans are an independent bunch, and I think you Brits are much the same. Plus, you’ve got the stiff upper lip, keep your feelings in check thing. But, if you’re compatible with your symbiote, it’s as easy as any other friendship. You’ll argue, yes, but you’ve always got someone at your back, someone who shares all your experiences and knowledge. And I’ve laughed more with Selmak than I ever have with any other friend. If you’re truly good for each other, then sharing a body won’t be a big deal. It’ll take a little getting used to, but in my opinion, it’s so worth it to know you’ll never be alone ever again.”

That sounded simultaneously wonderful and terrifying. John was so close to saying yes, but some part of him held back. To never have a thought that was his own again? Could he really do that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting late, so I'll have to post the back half of the story tomorrow. Sorry!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Timot talk about John, and then things get exciting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Character death. Of course, there has to be a death for the storyline to continue, so hopefully this doesn't come as a complete surprise to you. Sorry, though. :(

«His sense of humor matches yours, tek'ma'te,» Timot said to Sherlock as they lay in bed early the morning after John’s arrival. They had been debating John’s merits and faults for the past hour.

Sherlock smiled. «Yes, I quite like it,» he agreed.

«He’s a soldier. That definitely helps. And he’s handsome, by human standards.»

«Yes, yes. We get it. You’ve got a bit of a crush. Shall I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?»

«Cheeky.»

«Mmm.»

«More importantly, _you_ like him.»

«He’s fascinating,» Sherlock prevaricated.

«Exactly. You two would not grow bored with each other.» Timot laughed. «I do worry that you’ll encourage recklessness in each other, though. Two adventurers in one body may be too much.»

«Just because you’re a wet blanket doesn’t mean everyone else has to be.»

«I’ve kept you alive for the last two hundred and fifty years.»

Sherlock was a bit put out. «I managed well enough before you came along.»

«Because all of your previous hosts were, as you so charmingly put it, wet blankets too.»

«Maybe it’s time for a change.»

«Maybe.» Timot sighed. «I think he would be good for you. He’s a protector and a healer. He’ll watch over you. _And_ , he’s stubborn enough to keep you from getting too out of hand.»

«I don’t know that I like that,» Sherlock countered. «I need to be in charge.»

«You’re a parasite that needs a host to live. Maybe it’s about time you learned to share.»

«I’m a _symbiote_. I share.»

«Yes, _I_ know that. I’m the one with the body you’re sharing. But I don’t think _you_ realize that you’re not as in control as you think you are. I’ve let you believe you’re in control because it’s my nature to do so, but I don’t think John is as much of a pacifist as I am. You need to remember that he’s volunteering for this. He’s been an autonomous being for his entire life, and now he’s being asked to give that up to save you. And I truly believe he will make that choice. But you can’t run over him roughshod like you have me. I warn you now, that man has a temper.» Timot chuckled. «Mai'tac, I wish I could be around to see you two go at it. Oh, the fights you’ll have.»

“I don’t want you to go,” Sherlock whispered, saying it out loud for the first time, as if he needed to hear the words to allow himself to realize he meant it. He felt the tears gather at the corners of his eyes.

«I know, friend. But I’ve lived a good life. I met you. We went on adventures. It’s time I moved on. And I really think John will be good for you. Better than I was, and I wasn’t such a bad friend.»

Sherlock felt a wave of calm as Timot comforted him. “No, you were wonderful.» He took soothing breaths and let the aches and pains of their body remind him that Timot did need to pass on.

They were drifting off to sleep when they heard the first rumble. It was at the other end of the complex, but a second followed much closer. They sat up, moving into action before they gave it a thought. As they reached the corridor, they saw Mycroft/Marcon headed their way.

“Goa’uld?” Sherlock asked.

“Jalrow was captured two days ago. We’re evacuating and heading to Site 2. You need to get to John in case…” Mycroft looked down at their failing body. Xe knew Timot was weaker than he and Sherlock had let on.

Sherlock nodded. “Of course. Shal'nok, sibling mine.”

“Shal'nok, brother.” Mycroft’s eyes went soft. “Timot, if we do not meet again, thank you for protecting our brother and being his friend. You were our friend, too, and we will miss you.”

Timot placed a hand on the other Tok’ra’s arm. “Farewell, friend. I enjoyed our time together. Shal’nok.”

«No time to dawdle, Timot,» Sherlock chivvied.

Timot gave a final nod, and they headed down the corridor to John’s chambers.

The Tau’ri wasn’t in his room, but they soon found him in a nearby corridor helping move things. He seemed to have forgotten his leg pain in the excitement. Though his arm was still in a sling, his walking stick was nowhere in sight.

“John,” Sherlock called over the bombardment as they hobbled toward the man. “You need to stay with us.”

Sherlock tried to pull John away, but John held firm. “I’m helping, Sherlock. There isn’t much time.” He bent over to grab a bag he could lift one-handed, but Sherlock took his arm. John yanked back. “Sherlock!”

“John.” Something in his voice caught John’s attention, and he looked at the Tok’ra. “I know you want to help, but we can’t be separated. If Timot…”

John’s eyes widened in understanding and panic. “Oh. Right.”

“Just in case,” Sherlock tried to reassure him.

John must have made a decision, because his face cleared and he nodded. “Of course. Where are we going?”

“We need to get to the chappa'ai for evacuation. I know the coordinates of our new homeworld.”

“Right. Lead the way, then.”

They were almost to the transportation rings that would take them up to the planet’s surface when the loudest rumble yet brought debris and crystals falling around them. John covered Sherlock and Timot as best he could, but when Sherlock came to a few moments later, he knew that their injuries were severe. Their right leg was obviously broken and there was severe pain all along their thoracic cavity. Likely internal bleeding.

John groaned. “Sherlock? Timot? You okay?”

Sherlock gasped, but couldn’t manage any words. The pain was bad. He could feel Timot fading.

No! He was supposed to have more time. He needed more time. He couldn’t… Timot couldn’t … It was too soon.

But Sherlock could feel Timot chiding him weakly. They were ready for this. John would be a good host. It would be fine.

Sherlock sobbed. «No, Timot. Not yet. Please don’t go.»

«I need to,» Timot said, his internal voice far too faint in their mind. «You need to go to John now, before it’s too late.»

«I can’t do this again, Timot. It’s too much. I should just die with you. It will be better that way.»

«Stop!» Timot rallied. «You can do this, Sherlock. You’re the strongest, bravest, kindest, most intelligent being I’ve ever met. You’ll be fine. John will protect you.»

Timot took over one last time. Sherlock didn’t know how he managed to stay conscious through the pain. He was so strong. Sherlock didn’t know how he’d survive without Timot. _Why_ was it like this every time? _Why_ was there so much pain? _Why_ did he care so much?

“John,” Timot said softly. “My injuries are fatal. I don’t have long. I know you’re not ready, that you haven’t made a decision, but will you please do this for Sherlock? For me? It will be temporary. Just until you get to safety and another host can be found. Please.”

There was blood on John’s face. His sling was ripped. He looked lost and scared. After a moment, he took a breath, his expression evened out, and he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Timot sighed. “Thank you,” he said, weakening further, as if John’s accord was the one thing Timot still lived for. Now that he had it, Timot could go. “I wish I had time to know you better, John Watson. But I think you are a good match for Sherlock. He will need you greatly over the next few weeks. The blending is…difficult for him. Be patient, but don’t let him overrule you. I went too easy on him, I think; let him have his way too often. But you, you’re stubborn. I think that’s…that’s good.” Timot gasped. He didn’t have much longer. “Good bye, John. Shal’nok.”

“Shal’nok, Timot,” John said softly. “What do I do now?”

“Come here and open your mouth,” Timot managed. When John was close enough, he cupped John’s cheeks and put his own mouth over John’s.

«Shal’nok, my dearest friend.» called Timot’s mental voice, weaker than before.

«You will not be forgotten, my friend,» Sherlock replied, just as he released himself from Timot.

\------

John pressed his open lips to Timot’s and briefly felt the slide of something in his mouth, then a quick pain at the back of his throat. Then things went weird. He seemed to be both himself and Timot for a few moments. Then there were waves of…something in his neck. There was pain everywhere and nowhere. Timot’s body dropped away, and John was himself again. He was about to sigh in relief when there was an explosion in his head. Sights and sounds were too loud, his clothing was too rough, his brain was cataloguing everything. It felt like someone had taken the entire _Encyclopaedia Britannic_ a and shoved it into his head. Random facts were popping up and disappearing. Phrases, visions, smells, and—oh God—the _feelings_. Jesus, the pain, the grief, the loneliness. It was like when his grandmother had passed, times a thousand. There was anger and panic. Frustration. John was drowning. He couldn’t find a way out. He wasn’t going to make it.

Somehow, though, he managed to come to himself enough to realize these were Sherlock’s feelings. It was Timot’s loss causing the pain. John wanted to hug him, protect him until he was better. But Sherlock had no body, other than the small one now wrapped around John’s spinal cord. No, that wasn’t quite right. Sherlock had John’s body. It was _their_ body now. Still, it wasn’t like John could hug himself. Themselves?

So he closed his eyes and visualized them both in a room. He caught a memory of a young man—Timot, when he and Sherlock first blended. He was tall and pale, with dark curly hair and a smile just as charming as it had been when John had met him. John latched onto the image. He visualized himself wrapping his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close and rocking him. He put their foreheads together and slowly rubbed Sherlock’s back.

«It’ll be okay,» he reassured the Tok’ra. «I know it hurts. It will hurt for a while, but it will get better.»

Sherlock’s imagined body took on a life of its own. He put his head in the crook of John’s neck and sobbed. «Why does it have to hurt so much? It isn’t fair.»

«No, it’s not,» John agreed, holding the other man tighter. «But I’ll help you. I’m here.»

After a few minutes, Sherlock’s sobs lessened. John took stock of his physical body. His arm seemed to be hurting less, but it was hard to tell through the tingling. Sherlock must be healing him. He felt so tired.

«Would it be better if we rested?» John asked. “This healing must be hard work.»

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he nodded into John’s shoulder.

«Okay then,» John said softly. He imagined a sofa for them to get comfortable on, not that they needed to be comfortable when they weren’t corporeal, but it helped John to keep up the visual. And it seemed to comfort Sherlock.

Sherlock burrowed into John’s side. There was a hint of interest in the imagined room and their imagined bodies. «This is different. I’ll have to…» he began to fade as John let black surround them. «Have to look into it… later…»

They slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I really didn’t expect the story to go this way. I was planning on having them interact the same way Sherlock and Timot did, and I think they still will most of the time. But John really wants his autonomy—stubborn, silly man—and I think this will make Sherlock further intrigued with John. But hey, you get some Benedict Sherlock now. Aren’t you glad? ;)
> 
> It’s been interesting seeing how this particular plot device—the symbiotic relationship—changes Sherlock and John a little. Sherlock isn’t as lonely when they meet, and John is going to have to learn to deal with feelings a lot sooner. But I feel like I’ve kept their natures fairly intact (I hope!). They’re still two crazy blokes who like to chase insane adventures. Sherlock’s still arrogant, and John is still temperamental.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John adjust to the new circumstances.

John woke slowly, not sure what had disturbed him. Soon he heard shouting and rock falling. What was happening? Oh, right. They had been in a cave-in. They were trapped. Timot. Oh, Timot had _died_. John had… John had agreed to become a host, at least temporarily. Before John could further get his bearings, a feeling of overwhelming loss flooded him. Oh, God. Sherlock.

John had never felt so many emotions so strongly before. He wasn’t sure if it was from the grief over Timot’s death and the shock of the blending, if it was because his and Sherlock’s combined feelings were acting as an echo chamber that enhanced everything, or if it was because Sherlock just _felt_ so much more than a normal person, but whatever the case, it was overwhelming.

John breathed deep. «Okay, Sherlock. It’s okay. Just stay ca–»

«My Sharaki of two hundred and fifty years dies, and you want me to _be calm_? Kree shac, shel nok!» Sherlock continued to rage, causing a feeling of ruckus in John’s brain, if that could be done without sound or another body.

Right. _Bite me._ Okay, bad calming technique. John tried his earlier approach. He visualized the room again, them sitting on an old leather sofa—his grandmother’s, he remembered. He’d always loved that sofa. It was soft and comforting, enveloping his body in just the right way.

John put his hands on Sherlock’s face, stroked the other man’s cheeks. «I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here for you. What do you need?»

Sherlock’s still body surged to life with a shuddered breath. «It _hurts_.»

«I know. It’s going to hurt for a while, but I’ll help you through it. Is it always like this? The grief?» John asked quietly, moving his hands into Sherlock’s soft curls and pushing the other man’s head down onto his shoulder. He leaned them back on the couch, and Sherlock curled close.

«I care too much,» Sherlock whispered.

«No such thing,» John replied. They sat in silence for a while.

«Three hosts back was the worst,» Sherlock finally said. “Treven understood me so well. We were a perfect match. His death was violent. I barely made it out in time. After that, I vowed not to care so deeply. It worked until Timot. He and I were not a perfect match, but he was a good man. Kind, loyal, funny. He liked to tease me. He took the backseat in many matters, but he always pushed me to be more sociable, to get involved. I knew it was a bad idea, but he did it so sweetly and so humorously that I couldn’t say no. He was a good friend.» Sherlock’s sobs started again in earnest.

John just sat there, holding the Tok’ra. He was shit at emotions, but he could give silent support. Luckily, that’s all Sherlock seemed to need right then.

After a while, Sherlock calmed. «How are you doing this?»

John roused. «Doing what?»

«This.» Sherlock waved around them. «How are we both here in this place?»

John shrugged. «I dunno. I just wanted to hug you, but you didn’t have a body, so I visualized one. Is this not normally how a Sharak interacts?»

«No. At least, it’s never been this way for me. Once the blending occurs, our thoughts merge, and… we become one.»

«But a host and symbiote aren’t one.» John frowned. «You keep your distinct personalities. You’re able to think separate thoughts, aren’t you?»

«To an extent. But they tend to run into one another. The edges bleed together. But you come from a culture that values privacy and independence. I suppose it makes sense that you equate self with an individual body.» Sherlock looked down at his hands. «What body did you give me? Did you make it up?»

«No, I found it in your memories. I think it’s Timot’s, when you two were younger.» John visualized a mirror and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s face lit up. «Yes, that’s Timot.» His face softened. «This is how he looked when we first blended. He was fantastic. He tried to keep me out of trouble, pretended to be annoyed, but he secretly liked it.» He got a faraway look in his eyes.

«Do you want to tell me about it?»

Sherlock frowned in confusion. «You can access the memories yourself. Are you having difficulties? My mind palace is very well organized. You should be able to find whatever you need quite easily.»

John smiled. «First of all, mind _palace_? Glad to see you’re so humble. Second of all, I’d rather hear it from you. I want you to pick the stories to tell me.»

Sherlock looked lost for a moment, but then he nodded. «Very well.» He stood. «Let’s see if I can make this work for me. I’ve never done this before.» A door appeared in the room. Sherlock walked to it and opened it while studying the frame. «Very interesting.»

«You didn’t think you could do it?»

«No, it’s not that. Just…this body. It’s just mine, isn’t it? Is this how it always feels for you?»

John shrugs. «Yeah, I suppose so.»

«It’s a bit lonely, don’t you think?»

John concentrated, trying to push an emotion on Sherlock, something comforting. «I’m still here.»

Sherlock gave a relieved look. «Good. Could we… Before we go, could we check…» He twirled his hands in the air above them. «Out there? Just to make sure?»

«Yeah.»

And just like that, they were back in the cave-in, in their real body. They could hear people digging, trying to get to them. They sounded closer than when John had first awoke.

«That’s Jalen and Khonsu. They should reach us in about twenty minutes.»

This made John smile. «You can tell just from a few sounds?»

John could feel Sherlock was relieved that they were now communicating like “normal.” He wasn’t sure how he knew it was Sherlock’s emotion or why he knew what caused the feeling. It was just something he knew.

«Ah yes, the tediousness of a new host acclimatizing to the blending. I _really_ missed that.»

But though Sherlock sounded (sounded? how can he _sound_ like anything? he was just thoughts in John’s brain) annoyed, John could tell that he was pleased with how John was behaving. And John decided he would be as ridiculous and stupidly human as necessary to distract Sherlock from his grief. Just until John acclimatized to the blending and could focus on dealing with the grief himself.

All of a sudden, John was slammed with equations. «What the?!?»

«You wanted to know how I knew it would take them twenty minutes to reach us. This is how.»

“Ugh. Maths,” John muttered out loud. Now that he was focusing on their physical body, he checked in with their injured shoulder. The pain was completely gone. There was still some residual tingling, but it was low level. He pulled the sling off and straightened their arm.

“Oh, that is fantastic. I’ve missed this bloody appendage.” He swung their arm back and forth, up and down, just because he could. Then he stood. The pain in their thigh was also gone, as were the small aches and pains that came with age. “You even did our joints! Brilliant.” He laughed.

Then John felt a…he wasn’t sure what to call it. Like he’d been reined in or put in a box or something. He tried to move their body but he couldn’t. Suddenly, it moved without him.

“If you’re quite finished, I’ll take a test drive now. Test drive? Oh. Tau’ri idioms. Oh! This is brilliant. Fucking aces. The bees knees. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

John could hear his voice, feel the laughter bubble up. He could even feel the interest and excitement, but none of it was coming from him. He didn’t like it. It felt wrong. No one should be in charge but him. It was _his_ body! He was only loaning it out temporarily to save someone’s life.

«Calm down, John. You’ll be yourself again soon. I just want to see what it’s like in here.» Their body jumped up and down a couple of times. Sherlock put their hands in front of their face, studying them in the weak light from the dying crystals. «You’re rather small, aren’t you?»

«Oi! I’m perfectly average, I’ll have you know.»

«Is average something you aspire to? We can’t have that. Don’t be boring, John.»

John was about to retort when Sherlock looked down. At their feet was Timot’s body, resting peacefully amidst the rubble. He caught his breath and dropped down next to the body. Sherlock put a hand on Timot’s face, caressing it softly.

“Pal time shree tal ma, tal'ma'te. Tak mal arik tiak.”

And though John could hear his voice saying these Goa’uld words he shouldn’t know, his brain told him the translation: _Our love does not end in death, my dear friend. You will not be forgotten_.

He didn’t want to take them back to their mind room with the couch, so he tried his best to wrap his thoughts and emotions around Sherlock to comfort him. It worked, and Sherlock sent feelings of thanks in return. It was an interesting mode of communication, but John kind of liked it. There had been so many times when he didn’t have the right words and wished he could just send his thoughts or feelings to another person. Now he could.

«And I can translate those into words, if you need to share them with another,» Sherlock offered.

So this sharing thing wasn’t completely bad, John supposed.

«Give it time. You’ll learn more.»

Okay, that was getting disconcerting. «Can you always hear what I’m thinking?»

«Stop thinking with such physicality, John. Expand your mind. I don’t _hear_ anything. I just feel it and understand it. And yes, most thoughts are automatically shared between us, since we are sharing a physical brain. Well, technically, my symbiote body is a separate brain, but it merged with this body’s brain during the blending, so we consider it one whole brain.»

«Why are we bothering to talk to each other then? Or think at? Or whatever? Why isn’t there just a straight line of communication constantly happening?»

«There is. We believe there is some defense mechanism in all human brains that keeps you from realizing that straight line. A certain rigidity in your thought processes dictates that there must be something akin to speech in order for communication to occur. Emotions aren’t held to that same rigidity, which is why there’s a natural ebb and flow between our feelings. But you humans seem to take comfort in pretending that we’re having a “normal” conversation. Oh, air quotes. They’re kind of ridiculous, but I like them. Anyway, the rigidity will erode a bit over time. We’ll share more in feelings and less in direct thoughts as we come to know each other better.»

« _If_ this becomes permanent.»

«Mmm.»

«I haven’t chosen yet, Sherlock! I can’t deny that I’m glad to have a test run, but that doesn’t mean I’ve made my choice. I could still back out.»

«You won’t.»

John did the emotional equivalent of raising his eyebrows in a ‘what makes you say that?’ fashion, just to see if he could get his point across. It worked.

«I’m the most interesting thing to happen to you since you joined the SGC.»

«How do you know that?»

«I remember it.»

«You’re remembering my memories?»

«Of course, John. It’s how the blending works.»

«How do you do it so quickly? I have to concentrate to go through your memories.»

«Remember that I’ve been doing this for almost two millennia now. Plus, I’ve been filing all of your memories away in my mind palace since the blending. I know where everything is, so it’s easy to find.»

«You’ve ‘ _been_ filing,’ as in, while we’re talking—um, communicating?»

«Of course, John. I don’t exactly need to use all of my faculties to talk to you.»

«Ta very much.»

Sherlock scoffed. «Really, John. Don’t be boring. Come, I’ll show you.»

And just like that, they were standing in what John was quickly coming to think of as their room. The couch was still there, but now it was joined by an area rug and a fireplace.

«Picked that up pretty quick, did you?» John remarked, looking around. The rest of the room was still blank, but it was beginning to take shape the longer they stood there.

«Not difficult. I just never had a need for thinking in this way before. Still not sure it’s necessary, but I will cater to your whims for now,» Sherlock said with a more than a hint of longsuffering.

«Trial run, remember? Let’s not get too tangled up before we know for sure, okay?»

John felt a moment of panic from Sherlock before the Tok’ra tamped it down and replaced it with annoyance. And because grief was still tingeing everything, John sent waves of comfort as he asked, «So what do you want to show me?»

Sherlock led them out of their room and into a white corridor. It didn’t stay white for long; soon it turned into warm sandstone. «Really, your idea for the room isn’t that far removed from my mind palace. A mind palace is a way of mapping certain memories, thoughts, and facts to a physical place to remember them more easily. I’ve never walked through it with such physicality, though; it was always completely mental. This is interesting. Technically, once everything is mapped, you should never forget something unless you purposefully remove it. In reality, few people manage it, even among the Tok’ra. Granted, our lives are very long, so there is more to store away. I’ve managed a decent job, though I do find myself regretting deleting—deleting? oh, computers, of course—certain facts that I later realize would have been useful. Mycroft claims to have never forgotten anything ever, but I think xe’s fibbing. Xe just likes to show off and pretend to be the better, smarter, older sibling. Git. Ooooh, I’m definitely using that term on him. Your culture is _fascinating_ , John. We should visit Earth sometime. I’d like to see it for myself.»

Sherlock continued babbling, but John stopped paying close attention. He was getting the gist of this feelings-over-words thing and realized he didn’t need to focus to understand what Sherlock was communicating. Especially since he would say something, and John would find memories filling in, such as Sherlock and Mycroft’s first hosts and their lives together, and how they’d been tied together since, choosing to be siblings, with all of the rivalry and love that it entailed. How Mycroft was even more aloof than Sherlock, and how Sherlock worried about his sibling just as much as Mycroft worried about him.

As they walked, Sherlock explained the layout, showing John an overview that appeared as a paper map in John’s hands. The palace was not one cohesive place. The décor and architecture changed by wing and sometimes by room. One minute they’d be walking down a stone hall, and the next they’d be in a forest glade. John saw his memories sliding in next to Sherlock’s by topic.

He wasn’t sure it was wise for Sherlock to be filing John’s own thoughts away, but he couldn’t seem to dissuade the Tok’ra from the idea that this was permanent. Not that he was trying terribly hard. He was still uncomfortable with the loss of his autonomy, but Sherlock was correct in saying this was the most interesting thing to happen to him since he had joined the Stargate Program, or ever, really. And what life did he have to go back to? Here, he could do good and see exciting places and do exciting things. John tried to ignore Sherlock’s growing smugness.

«Oh, wow. I haven’t thought about this in a long time. I’d forgotten we used to play pirates,» John said fondly, watching a memory of him and Harry. He couldn’t have been more than eight. They held wooden swords, John had an eyepatch over one eye, and Harry wore a tricorn hat and carried a stuffed parrot (she always got to be the captain, Little Miss Bossy that she was).

John laughed in delight, but then felt inexplicably sad. No, not quite sad. Yearning. He realized that it wasn’t his feeling.

He turned to his friend. «You never got to be a child, did you?»

Sherlock looked mournful. «A bit difficult when you’re born with genetic memory and implanted into an adult.»

The low-level grief that had been following them swelled, and suddenly they were back in their physical body, surrounded by rubble.

«Sherlock, let me hel–»

«They’re almost here.»

John felt suddenly cut off. He had use of his body again, but he couldn’t feel Sherlock. No, that wasn’t quite right. He could feel him, but he was hiding his thoughts and feelings. His presence was there, but John couldn’t read him at all.

Before he could try to dig his way in to find Sherlock, the people literally digging in reached them. A crack of light appeared and, within a minute, the space was big enough to see people. Two minutes after that, there was enough space for John to crawl through, bringing Timot’s body with him. Several Tok’ra whose names and life stories he suddenly knew helped him out. Mycroft was standing to one side, looking as sourpuss as usual.

When xe saw the body, xe breathed a soft, “Ah” and looked at John appraisingly. “Everything going well, Captain?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose, given the circumstances.” John looked down at Timot, who he still held in his arms. People tried to take the body away, but John held on. It felt wrong to give Timot away when Sherlock wasn’t around to have a say.

“Continue the evacuation. Leave the body with us,” Mycroft commanded, and the others obeyed. “May I speak with my brother?”

“Umm, he’s unavailable right now…”

Mycroft stared for a moment, then rolled xer eyes. “Doing his hiding thing, is he? So predictable.”

John’s ire rose. Sherlock had just lost his closest friend of two and half centuries. He was allowed some grieving. “Oh, piss off, you great git. Just because you’re a fucking robot doesn’t mean Sherlock needs to be. If you’re not going to be helpful with your hovering, I suggest you go find something more impor– Oh, you’re winding me up, aren’t you?” John interrupted his rant when he saw the tiniest twitch at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. He narrowed his eyes and pointed at the other Tok’ra. “I’ll allow your test this once, because I know you care for Sherlock and want to make sure I’m good enough for him, but do not try to cross that line again. We are adults and do not need you playing nursemaid, got that?”

Mycroft’s eyebrow went up. “Sherlock will be pleased. Timot was always much too fond of me for Sherlock’s liking.”

John let a little grin spill out before harnessing it. “I haven’t decided to stay yet. There were,” he looked down at Timot, “extenuating circumstances.”

“Of course, Captain.”

John capitulated, just a bit. “Call me John,” he said resignedly.

Mycroft smirked.

John rolled his eyes. “Do you think you can stop being a poncy arsehole long enough to lend a hand. We are still evacuating, are we not?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wallows in grief (as he should) for bit, and then he and John have a heart-to-heart.

Sherlock wasn’t sure why he went back to their room. It was comforting, for some reason. He was also not sure why he was filling in the emptiness with walls, furniture, and knick-knacks, or why those things were of the Earth style from John’s memories. He found John comforting, and this was the place John had first comforted him.

It was strange, having a body (sort of) of his own, with no one else there to make it do things he didn’t want it to do, though it was disconcerting. He reached out to feel John’s presence, which made him feel better. He wasn’t really alone. And John was so steady, so strong. Timot had been, too, but there was something different about John, a different flavor of steady. Resolve, that was it. Timot had been content to let Sherlock have his way most of the time. He found Sherlock amusing and fun. John, though, was a fighter. Strange that, even though he was a soldier, he hated people ordering him about. In his job it was fine, but in life, John was his own person.

It wasn’t something Sherlock was used to dealing with, but it was intriguing, different. He’d grown too used to his ways. He’d become the very thing he’d hated—boring. But then John had come along and refused to cow to Sherlock. He would probably find it annoying in time, but for now it was just…fascinating.

Another wave of grief washed over Sherlock before he could further corral his thoughts. He scrubbed his (not real) face. Why did it hurt so much? Timot was his friend, yes, his closest friend during the last two hundred and fifty years, but they weren’t soulmates like Sherlock and Treven had been. Sherlock had learned to keep his distance after Treven’s death almost killed him. So why was Sherlock grieving so much? The other Tok’ra didn’t grieve like this. They were sad when their hosts passed on, but they were still functioning. But every time Sherlock lost a Sharaki, he hid away. He spent days avoiding his new host, exhausting himself with keeping his thoughts separate from theirs.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself get lost in his grief, memories of Timot floating through his mind. He came to some time later when the feeling of John’s presence increased. His eyes flew open, and he saw John sitting next to him.

«How did you get in here?» he demanded. He had locked John from this place.

«You’ve had enough time alone, don’t you think?» John asked, ignoring Sherlock’s question.

«How did you get in here?» Sherlock asked again.

John shrugged. «I wanted to be here, and so here I am.»

«I locked you out!»

«Next time you want to lock me out, go somewhere I didn’t create.» John raised an eyebrow. «You okay?»

Sherlock glared.

John sighed. «Look, I know you need to grieve, but: one, you shouldn’t be alone right now; two, _I_ really shouldn’t be alone right now and making decisions for you; and three…» he paused a moment. «Timot’s funeral ceremony.»

Sherlock clenched his fists and turned away from John.

John continued, as if he was used to being ignored. Maybe he was. «Mycroft said you never attend them. And that’s your right, of course, but… I think it could be helpful. It makes it a little more… real.»

«He’s not with me anymore. I know it’s _real_.» Sherlock said, his voice flat.

«I meant, it can make it easier to let him go, if you see– If you watch–» John stopped. «I think it would help.»

Sherlock said nothing.

John said nothing.

Sherlock finally broke. «How long are you going to sit there?»

«As long as you need me to.»

«I don’t _need_ you.»

«See, that’s where you’re wrong. For one, you need my body. B, you shouldn’t be alone right now, no matter what your brilliant mind thinks. And third, I’m your friend. I want to be here.»

«I don’t have _friends_.»

«You do now.»

«Just go away! I want to be alone. I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t ask for–» He was halted by a choked sob. _Timot. Why?_

There was a warm hand on his shoulder. «I get it.» John said softly. «Life would be easier if you could just push everyone away. Emotions are messy and they get in the way and they fucking _hurt_. I’ve spent most of my life avoiding people. I have a sister I barely speak to, a dead mother and grandmother I didn’t get to say goodbye to, and a deadbeat father I haven’t spoken to in twenty years. I have work friends, but no real friends. I’ve never had a romantic relationship that lasted more than a year. I got sacked from a job I loved and was about to be sent back to a home that wasn’t really a home anymore. My life is shit _because_ I avoided feelings. They hurt like a mother fucker, but I’m proof that running away from them does more harm than good.»

Sherlock turned to face John, whose face was sad and concerned. «When is the funeral?»

John looked relieved. «Whenever you want. I don’t know how much attention you’ve been paying, but we’re on the new homeworld now. Everyone is busy getting the complex grown and setting up shop, so you if you want to wait a couple of days, that’s fine. Oh, you’re stuck with how I arranged our room, by the way, since I was getting radio silence from you.»

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and felt like he was maybe very slightly less sad. «I thought this was temporary.»

«You just want me to admit I was wrong,» John complained with an eyeroll.

«No, I just want you to admit you were a stubborn idiot.»

John chuckled. «I was an idiot. A stubborn arsehole. You were right. You are the most interesting thing to ever happen to me, and I’d be a tit to give it up. You can be an idiot too, though. We’re both allowed, from time to time.»

Sherlock could feel a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. It felt wrong to smile, though.

«It’s not wrong, Sherlock. You’re allowed to feel more than one thing at a time. And with two of us sharing one body, I’m pretty sure we get to feel at least four things at once.»

«I don’t want to forget him.»

«You won’t. Have you forgotten the others?»

Sherlock let the smile appear as he shook his head.

«There you go. Feel all the feels, and remember your Sharaki fondly. Doctor’s orders.»

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little nugget of knowledge. The Tok'ra funeral ceremony includes placing the body in front of the stargate, dialing an address, and letting the unstable vortex vaporize the body. How's that for a ceremony. O_O


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get ready for their next adventure.

They held the funeral two days after they arrived on the new planet. Sherlock was loath to admit it, but John was right, it did help. As they watched the unstable vortex of the chappa'ai disintegrate his friend’s body—the body he had inhabited for over two and a half centuries—he felt lighter and just a little less sad. As John had said, and as Sherlock could attest, it would take time, but with John’s help, he was managing.

Which meant that, when they arrived on Earth a month later so that John could settle his affairs, Sherlock was actually able to be excited about it. He had all of John’s memories, but there was something different about seeing it in person. The SGC was rather dull, but he had fun annoying John while they packed up his things in John’s Colorado Springs apartment. John would only be able to take a few things with him, and while he was fine with that, Sherlock was having a harder time.

«I should’ve known you’d be a hoarder, based on what you did to our mind room.»

«Our lounge is perfect, John.»

«If you’re a hoarder. Why do we need floppy disks in a room that isn’t even real?»

«I like the way they look. Oh, can we take this?»

«Sherlock, we don’t need a plastic spork.»

«But–»

«No! I’m only taking a few sets of clothes, a few photographs–»

«Your mp3 player? You have a rubbish memory for music. I need the real thing.»

Sigh. «My mp3 player, and a few books.»

«Not boring ones. Do you read anything besides whodunits that you can figure out in the first four pages?»

«What? Do you want _War and Peace_?»

«Dull.»

«You think everything is dull.»

«You’re not.»

«We– Oh. Thank you.»

«You’re welcome. Oh! How about–»

«Seriously? A dalek torch?»

«Earth has strange entertainment.»

«Don’t knock it until you try it. How about a Swiss army knife?»

«Primitive…but yes.»

They ended up with three duffle bags. John complained and told Sherlock that since he was the one hoarding, he was in charge of their body while carrying it. After his flat was cleared and most of his old stuff sent to charity, they headed for England. John had a bank account to close down, paperwork to sign, and a sister to visit. Luckily, John was able to keep his military ID, which let him bypass the full-body scanner that would have shown the world that aliens existed. Sherlock tried to get John to go through the scanner anyway, but John was boring and said no.

«You’ll like London. Much bigger and busier than the Springs,» John explained as they settled into their seat (first class; Sherlock thought coach seemed beastly and refused to go near it). They had a week to spend in London—John’s final leave with the military—so they would be playing tourist, much to Sherlock’s delight.

«We’ll go see the Eye? And the Tower? And the museum? And the cinema? Oh! And an amusement park?»

«We will need to sleep at some point, but yes, we’ll try to hit as much as we can.»

«Sleeping is boring.»

«But necessary.»

John chuckled as Sherlock settled grumpily at the back of his mind. He knew there would be days when Sherlock would annoy the hell out of him. But there would be adventure too, along with laughter and running and new planets. And that was definitely something to look forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty crap at writing endings. Hope this wrapped everything up sufficiently. Thanks to everyone who read along and commented as I posted, and to you readers who stumbled on this after the fact. A Sherlock/SG fusion is something I've wanted for a long time, and when such a story couldn't be found, I just had to write it myself. I hope I satisfied a few other people's cravings for a fusion, or for anyone who just loves SF stories. I hope you all enjoyed it!
> 
> P.S. I live about 20 miles from Cheyenne Mountain, and I'm DYING to just show up one day and demand to see the stargate. ;) Big dreams have I.
> 
> Find me on Tumbler [@vateacancameos](http://vateacancameos.tumblr.com).


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